


Only Fools Rush In

by fitz_y



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst, Incest, Miscarriage, Multi, Pregnancy, Team Smirk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:46:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitz_y/pseuds/fitz_y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was the very first Merlin piece I ever started writing – well over a year ago. It grew and grew into a huge monster, then I cut it to bits and started again twice, had visions of writing an epic Alternate Season 3, and finally left it to collect metaphorical dust on my harddrive. In going through my Merlin WIP folder, and figuring out what’s actually salvageable, I decided that this version of the first chapter, which I completed last fall, passes muster. As for the rest of the epic—well I’m never going to say never—but I don’t plan on writing it. Still, I think this piece stands well on its own, especially for those looking for some blood, gore, and unresolved heartache. Beta’ed several times by the extraordinary <span class="ljuser"><a href="http://misswonderfreak.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://misswonderfreak.livejournal.com/"><b>misswonderfreak</b></a></span> (to whom I owe Uther’s exploding head) and <span class="ljuser"><a href="http://yllenk.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://yllenk.livejournal.com/"><b>yllenk</b></a></span>. All remaining mistakes are my own.<br/></p>
    </blockquote>





	Only Fools Rush In

**Author's Note:**

> This was the very first Merlin piece I ever started writing – well over a year ago. It grew and grew into a huge monster, then I cut it to bits and started again twice, had visions of writing an epic Alternate Season 3, and finally left it to collect metaphorical dust on my harddrive. In going through my Merlin WIP folder, and figuring out what’s actually salvageable, I decided that this version of the first chapter, which I completed last fall, passes muster. As for the rest of the epic—well I’m never going to say never—but I don’t plan on writing it. Still, I think this piece stands well on its own, especially for those looking for some blood, gore, and unresolved heartache. Beta’ed several times by the extraordinary [](http://misswonderfreak.livejournal.com/profile)[**misswonderfreak**](http://misswonderfreak.livejournal.com/) (to whom I owe Uther’s exploding head) and [](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/profile)[**yllenk**](http://yllenk.livejournal.com/). All remaining mistakes are my own.  
> 

Losing my love of adventure  
Losing all respect for me and myself tonight  
…  
This is not who I meant to be.  
This is not how I meant to feel.  
— “Wish I May” Ani DiFranco 

“This is the brilliant opportunity you spoke of? From the number of horses, it looks like twenty knights of Camelot in there. That’s hardly a mere handful.” The chill in Morgana’s voice was reflected in the still winter air.

“If you weren’t so damned impatient to leave, we could have waited for something better. This is the best shot you’re going to get.”

Through the wavy atmosphere of the invisibility spell shrouding them, Morgana peered at the rough woodland chapel and the cluster of horses tethered nearby. She pulled her voluminous silver cloak tighter around her throat.

She jerked a thumb at the inscrutable death-masked knights waiting in perfect stillness. “Can they take down twenty men?”

“With enough time they could,” Morgause replied. “But we don’t have time if we want to prevent anyone from escaping to carry the news.” Jerkily, she tossed the helmet in her hands up and down. “We’ll rely heavily on your fire. If it looks like anyone’s about to escape, just torch the whole place.”

Morgana nodded curtly, her spine so tight it felt like it might snap. “Right. No one gets out alive.” Her smile was brittle.

In unspoken agreement, they lifted their hands to drop the invisibility shield as they strode toward the chapel. Morgana sensed the flames inside her, licking through her veins, straining towards her fingertips. This was the moment that would paste together the broken pieces of her life; this was the moment that would avenge her fears and purge her mistakes.

Morgause lashed out at the thick wooden door with a kick of magic that spun it from its hinges. The first thing Morgana sighted through the shafts of sunlight was Uther’s broad back, draped in Camelot red; her magic leapt at the image. Strident words were spitting out of his mouth and his fist was raised towards. . . Arthur, whose hands were clasped tightly behind his back, eyes glaring at his father.

Morgana faltered, stumbling mentally at the unexpected sight of the prince and Guinevere, beside him, in a white cotton dress, a hot blush tracing up her cheeks.

Leaning close, Morgana hissed to Morgause, “This was not part of the plan.”

Morgause snapped the visor over her helmet and brandished her sword.

Morgana gripped the chainmail of Morgause’s upper arm. “If you or the knights harm Arthur or Gwen, I will kill you myself.”

Morgause shook her off.

The tactician in her realized that they were losing any element of surprise they’d possessed. Arthur’s men—or were they Uther’s—were dashing to close the short distance to the entrance. Morgause rushed forward—nothing more than a blur of metal—and cut down a knight with a quick forward thrust, the first death of the day. She danced to the left, her sword arcing up, slamming down a knockout blow to another knight. Within the space of a few heartbeats, her small cotillion of warriors swarmed around her, hacking into Camelot’s soldiers.

Morgana surveyed the chaos with a still awareness. Arthur was charging forward, spearheading Camelot’s defense; Merlin scrambled behind, close at his heels. Morgana smiled at the sight of the prince’s manservant. He would be a casualty of today’s battle, of that she would be certain. But first she hunted bigger game.

Uther wielded a sword at the chapel’s altar, the rear point of Camelot’s spontaneous defense. Muttering a simple chant, Morgana felt a warm tingle as the invisibility shield re-enveloped her. While she could not perform any other magic while cloaked, it at least permitted her to slip unnoticed through the hack of swords and the tearing of flesh.

Circling him twice slowly, Morgana finally planted herself fifteen feet from where he stood, close enough to focus her attack solely on him but far enough to avoid the range of his weapon.

With a murmur she threw off her invisibility and drew a protective ring of fire around them, a ring to lock her inside with him and kept others out. Now she had him to herself.

Her magic flamed to life at her fingertips, and her attack suddenly felt surreal, like a figment of a dream. Her perception of time was slowing, as though she were caught in honey.

She had been here before; she had watched Uther die many times.

Eager fire hovered just under her nails as they faced each other. Uther raised his sword in front of his body, his gray-green eyes wary.

Morgana smiled and released a stream of flame the trailed past his shoulder.

“This is how you repay me, sorceress.” Even in death he was proud, haughty.

“No, Uther. You brought this upon yourself.” The fire inside her twitched to get out, to breathe. “Tell me you’re sorry.”

He scowled and pressed his lips into a firm line.

“You have your own arrogance to blame for your death.” She released her hold on her magic and it crashed toward him.

It was a familiar sight unfolding before her. Morgana cocked her head, watching the flames spark from her fingers to flirt up his red cape, alighting on his brown leather doublet. Uselessly, his arms batted at the fire tearing into his chest, a low scream ripping from his lips. The scar that slashed angrily across his forehead whitened; his eyes widened; he fell heavily to his knees with a piercing howl.

Morgana leaned closer, watching for long minutes as the flames—her flames, the flames that would do her bidding but never harm her own flesh—ate into him. She waited to feel something.

His limbs flailed jerkily, eyes rolling back into his head, guttural bellows pouring from his throat. He panted at her feet; the flames singed his fine hair and her nostrils filled with the acrid stench of burning skin.

His wrenching screaming ceased; his blackened skin cracked, leaking blood down his cheek.

She crouched down, leaning into his marred faced, nearly gagging with the smell, waiting, watching.

“Tell me you’re sorry!”

His body convulsed under the heat of the flame. In a fog of burning flesh, she pressed her face close to his black, dying lips.

“Tell me how proud of me you are,” she said quietly mocking.

She balled her hands into a fist and then struck his scorched chainmailed shoulder once, twice.

Uther was nothing more than a shaking mass of earth and blood. She stepped back, kicking out at his twitching legs; his inhuman bellowing began anew, torn from the remains of his throat.

She leaned back, watching the writhing form that had once been Uther.

The convulsing screaming that filled her ears tapered off, followed by a loud splattering explosion echoing within the fiery walls. Where Uther’s head had been lay trembling globs of red and gray matter, charred skin, shards of bone, and hissing steam. The only other sound she heard was the gentle crackle of flames.

Morgana gazed down, dumb-founded. _This_ was not how it was supposed to happen. There should have been more. With an outstretched hand, she reached out reflexively with her necromancy, grasping for his life force that hovered above them, intent on shoving it back into him, rebuilding his body, so she could watch his death again, so he could get it right this time.

But just in the moment that she stretched out her hand and began to incant the hissing words, she felt something hot and wet pelting down on her scalp and face. Dropping her hand, she glanced up and saw a dark cloud poised above her, spewing black rain down on her, eroding the intimate ring of fire that she was maintaining. It stung her face, clawed its way through her cloak, into her skin, splotched burning marks onto her fingers.

She let loose a battle cry and launched a streaming fireball into the cloud; the rain weakened.

She lobbied three more flaming missiles into the magical downpour, causing it to sputter and cease. The last sphere of flames trailed an arc through the inky cloud and landed firmly in the crisscrossing wooden beams supporting the arched roof. Flames skirted ever higher, approaching the roof. She called out to them, urging them back into her.

Just as the flames answered her and began to ebb back into her, the crossbeam snapped, swinging down to smack her in the chest and send her sprawling across the floor. Her head collided with the flagstones under her, something cracked loudly in her chest, and her lungs deflated, forcing the air from her body. Stunned, she lay there, her vision blackening. Sharp pain stabbed the back of her skull. When she tried to breathe, her whole torso screamed in protest. She reached inside for her power, and sent waves of it rushing through her body, knitting together the snapped bone, spurring on her muscles.

Seconds later, when she could breathe again and her vision was clear, she magically lifted the beam from where it pinned her, tossing it to the side. She jumped up to land in a low crouch. Her gaze quickly scanned the room: Uther’s burnt body lay on the floor; the red-cloaked knights of Camelot were falling to the crawling death that Morgause commanded; a few others from court cowered in the corner; Arthur dueled valiantly with Morgause; and a few feet away from her, hand outstretched, stood Merlin looking completely unfamiliar. Gone was the awkward hunched-over shuffling boy. In his place stood someone ruthless.

She advanced toward him; he whispered and something large skidded across the floor, almost tripping her. She stumbled and caught herself on the edge of a rough wooden chair.

Merlin glanced around nervously, his eyes caught between tracking Arthur and watching Morgana’s advance.

“ _You’re_ a sorcerer, Merlin?” The pitch of Morgana’s voice was rising.

She snapped her fingers and the chair caught fire while levitating slowly. She flicked her wrist just as he raised a hand, creating a translucent blue ward around himself. The flaming chair pummeled into Merlin’s magical shield; the impact forced him down so he stumbled, one knee grazing the ground, his knuckles scraping along the floor.

“You stupid lying hypocrite! Do you know what I suffered in Camelot? Do you know how alone I felt? Do you know how I lived in terror of my own dreams? How I feared myself? You were supposed to be my friend. You could have helped. You should have helped me instead of _killing_ me,” she yelled with full-throated fury.

“You have a debt to pay to me,” she added more quietly.

“I owe you nothing.” Merlin’s head whipped up and his determined golden gaze locked with hers.

Morgana circled her hand, pooling a fireball in her palm, then flinging it at him with all the rage and fear that had haunted her since Merlin had forced poison down her throat. But Merlin recovered quickly and was dodging and countering with a measly fireball of his own. Morgana sidestepped his inferior weapon—clearly he did not have the power of flame like she did—and hurled a torrent of flame darts from her fingertips. Several of them alighted on his neckerchief, hair, and trousers, singeing small holes.

Incanting determinedly, he retaliated with a burst of frozen air that stung Morgana’s skin and sent her careening through the air to collide with the wooden chapel wall.

Stumbling up, Morgana had no space to reflect on Merlin’s staggering power, on the stabbing aches in her head and ribs from the impact of his attacks, no space to experience fear at her first real sorcery battle, no space to hold onto the memory of the clumsy boy who had brought her flowers and ducked his head to hide the flush in his cheeks when she had looked at him.

She reached down into her core and opened the gates to the eager magic that reeked of death and sparked with flames; she let it flood her entire being, suddenly losing track of her own bodily frame. She was power. She was unstoppable. Distantly she heard a scream and realized it was her own voice clanging in the small space. She was done with fancy tricks; raw power spewed forth from her splayed hands in red and black waves and hurtled straight for Merlin.

He was roaring in the ancient tongue as he thrust both his arms out in front of him and launched two parallel waves of power that flickered with blue electricity and swirled in gray wind. The entire room shook. The red and the black, the blue and the gray crashed together and exploded upwards, rocketing off the roof of the small chapel, shaking the foundation of the building.

Morgana glanced up at the gaping hole where the roof used to be; she watched the clouds quietly drift above her as she felt her magic stutter and recede. Suddenly deflated, she fell jarringly to her knees, empty. Her vision blurred, but she yanked on it with the last reserves of her magic, forcing herself to cling to consciousness. She toppled onto her side, staring stupidly at Merlin’s advancing tread.

Merlin staggered towards her, looking pale and hollowed out, his clothing torn and smoking. He was rotating his hand counterclockwise, forming a sparking bolt of lightning in his palm. He grabbed it between his fingers like a living dagger. When he aimed it straight at Morgana’s heart, she knew with a still, quiet certainty that her death was near. Merlin approached, shaky but unwavering.

A soft weight landed on Morgana, rolling her onto her back.

Morgana glanced up to meet Gwen’s terrified stare. She breathed jerkily, her eyes boring into Morgana’s. Light-headedly, Morgana traced a hand over the left half of Gwen’s face, sooty from fire. Some of her curls appeared singed, both otherwise she seemed unharmed. Morgana’s heavy arms slipped up, locking around Gwen’s back, pressing her slender form into Gwen’s soft one. Detachedly Morgana registered the smooth but obvious bulge just below her stomach. Morgana blinked, clinging to consciousness fiercely, if only to hold onto Gwen for a little longer. The two women remained perfectly still; Morgana heard nothing but her own gulping lungs and Gwen’s breathy gasps.

“Gwen, move!” Merlin commanded loudly.

Morgana opened her eyes and watched Gwen’s determined jaw line. She lifted her lips up to Gwen’s ear, searching for something to say. But words stuck in her throat.

Merlin hissed and his wind magic nudged the women, striving to break them apart. Morgana clutched Gwen more tightly. She felt her magic struggling to recharge as she slipped closer to blackness. She burrowed towards the warmth above her.

Merlin’s chanting grew louder, and an icy blast slammed into Gwen, peeling Morgana’s hands away, sending Gwen’s form tumbling over and over across the floor.

Morgana raised a hand to protect herself from Merlin’s blue dagger, her mouth stumbling over a spell that would snatch the weapon right from his fingers.

“Merlin!” a harsh voice cut through the havoc and the wind swirling through the chapel abruptly died.

Morgana blearily lifted her head to see Morgause’s short sword poised above Arthur’s throat; she stood behind him with her forearm banded across his chest, her face impassive. Morgause’s undead warriors stood still as statues behind their enchantress.

Arthur’s eyes burned pure fury; his knights formed a circle around the group, swords hesitantly half-lowered.

“Merlin,” Morgause spoke calmly. The room held its breath. “If you want your prince to live, cease your attack.” She nudged the edge of her sword ever so slightly into the tender skin of Arthur’s neck and the smallest trace of blood appeared. He swallowed hard and scowled, every muscle in his face taut.

Merlin turned back to look at Morgana, his golden stare burning into her, lightning bolt held high. Morgana felt the sting of sweat in her eyes as she refused to back down from his hard stare. They watched each other coldly and she wondered how she’d ever thought she knew him.

Merlin exhaled loudly and dropped his hands in a gesture of futility, his blue bolt dissolving to nothingness at his feet. He stepped back from Morgana, shoulders rigid, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“Now stand up and come here, my love,” Morgause’s gentle voice slithered across the room to Morgana, willing her to stand. She ground her teeth and dredged up her last reserves of energy; she pushed up on her skinned palms. The silence of the room was complete as Morgana limped forward, all eyes trained on her. Her cloak was ripped and burnt, her back screamed in a million different ways, her temples throbbed, her vision was graying around the edges.

Morgana stumbled into Morgause, the other woman wrapped her left arm solidly around Morgana’s shoulder. Morgana shoved away slightly, struggling to stand on her own.

Then everything happened at once—Arthur took advantage of Morgause’s temporary distraction by ramming his shoulder into hers, causing her to stumble and drop her sword; she threw her arms more tightly around Morgana as she incanted softly; Gwen glanced up from where she lay prone on the floor, eyebrows raised in pain, her longing stare meeting Morgana’s. As Morgana and Morgause toppled to the floor, she felt that familiar dark twisting that started in her gut and ripped her to shadowy shreds. Like the remnants of wraiths, Morgana and Morgause swirled through space.

<><><>

The darkness receded and the two women formed from shadows in a warm kitchen where a low fire greeted them. Sprawled on the floor, Morgause cradled Morgana’s head, her kohl-rimmed eyes scanning her face. “I warned you what happens when you use up your reserves all at once. You’ve completely overexerted yourself. You need food immediately.” She whispered bread and a bowl of soup over from the table.

Morgana’s body, her heart—it all felt like one overwhelming dull throb. She accepted the broth Morgause spooned down her throat, sensing her magic curl around the sustenance as her grip on consciousness was fortified.

The rawness in her throat abated. The strands of anemic winter sunlight peeking through the window warmed her hair. Neither spoke for long minutes.

“Here,” Morgause said as she put down the bowl and lifted her hands to both sides of Morgana’s face. Morgause closed her eyes.

Morgana felt her sister’s familiar magic seep into her from Morgause’s warm palms. It smoothed through her veins, restoring her depleted magic supply. The twinned energy of fire and death locked into its rightful place at the core of her being.

Morgana exhaled with relief as the throbbing, stabbing pains faded, healed by her magic.

Morgause silently lifted the spoon to her sister’s lips. Morgana pushed it aside.

“You set me up,” Morgana said blankly.

“Eat more,” Morgause demanded softly.

Morgana shook her head, her lips pressed into a firm line. “You set me up,” she repeated. “They weren’t supposed to know it was me. You knew they were going to be there; you knew they would watch me kill Uther.”

Morgause sighed and put aside the spoon, squinting as she gazed out the high window. “It’s for the best this way.” Her voice was low and soothing and Morgana longed to wrap herself up in those comforting words. She glared and struggled to sit up.

“What makes you think you know what’s best for me?” Morgana asked.

“Do you really think you belong back there? Even with Uther gone, what makes you think Arthur will be more tolerant?” She paused and a dire firmness entered her voice. “Those people are not your friends, Morgana. Surely Merlin’s attack today proved that to you.”

She held out another mouthful of soup and Morgana slapped it out of her hand, the spoon clattering loudly across the floor. “Stop, just stop,” she snapped as she wrapped her arms snug around her legs, and curled her cheek down to rest on her knee.

Morgause placed the bowl of soup and hunk of bread at her feet with deliberation. “And Guinevere? She’s already queen _and_ carrying Arthur’s child. Do you think they need you anymore?” The bleak earnestness in her voice made Morgana cringe.

“What do you want me to believe? That you love me most?” Morgana grabbed at the bread, jerkily tearing a piece of it and stuffing it into her mouth. “I told you, I’m tired of being lied to, of being manipulated,” she said tiredly.

Morgause reached out to cover her hand and Morgana flinched. “And how many times do I have to tell you? You’re holding yourself back with these ridiculous notions of morality. What we have is _right_.”

“That’s not even . . . that’s not even the issue anymore.”

“Then what is?”

“What don’t you get, Morgause? I’ll be a weapon, fine. But I want to be my own weapon, not yours.” Morgana shoved the last of the bread into her mouth and stood. She yanked off her torn silver cloak, tossing it forcefully onto the kitchen table. She paced towards the stairs.

Morgause started, standing and encircling Morgana’s wrist, pulling her to her. “You can’t leave, you need me.” The words sounded like a promise.

Morgana twisted her arm down, breaking free of the other woman’s grasp. “My god, what else do you want from me? Haven’t you taken enough?” She trembled as she struggled to imbue her voice with decisiveness. “We’re done here. I’m leaving right now. Our bargain’s over, our work is done.” She paused, swallowing before meeting Morgause’s unreadable brown eyes. “And if you try and stop me, I swear I will use everything you taught me to fight you.”

<><><>

Gwen watched as Morgana and Morgause burst into shadows and disappeared, locked together in a deep embrace. The magical faceless knights similarly burst apart with loud clangs and were gone as if they had never been. Underneath the shocking silence her ears rang.

She ached all over—a blunt throb snaked down her back, and a sharp stab laced up her jaw. Something else, low in her torso pounded dully.

Yet her mind barely registered her pain. All she could see was the image of Morgana’s pale green eyes staring up at hers, of Morgana’s frozen expression of—what was it—shock, regret?

Morgana was alive and had returned. Be careful what you wish, her father had always said. Slowly she dug her scratched palms into the dirty floor beneath her and pushed up with a grunt.

“Guinevere!” Arthur sheathed his sword and strode to her side. He slid an arm around her waist and gently wiped the soot from her face.

“Alright?” he asked. Lips pressed into a thin line of concern, his eyes searched her face. His chest was shaking just barely.

Gwen bit her lip, inclined her head and nodded briefly. “Yes,” she lied. In the last second, she bit her tongue to hold back the word sire. Lightly, she touched her thumb to her ring finger and felt the heavy piece of gold firmly lodged there.

“No broken bones? Bruises?” He turned her around, swiftly and clinically patting her down, feeling for damage.

“Arthur, I’m fine,” she huffed.

“Good.” Arthur dropped his hands flatly from her and paced towards Uther’s burnt form, his footfalls heavy in the suddenly still chapel. Gwen moved to follow, flinching when something inside her clenched into a fist as she walked. She clapped her hand over mouth and nose at the stench emanating from the body. It was familiar—nauseatingly sweet and disgustingly meaty—the thick smell that had lingered in the courtyard and in her nostrils for days after a sorcerer had once been burned, when Uther had tired of beheadings and decided to demonstrate more creative ends for those who practiced magic. Standing over his father’s charred body that still oozed viscous dark fluids, Arthur’s face turned a deathly shade of white. Reaching a shaky hand up to his throat, he unhooked his red cloak, and then bent low and spread it over his father’s figure. A muscle jumped in his jaw as he covered the marred unrecognizable mass of ash, blackened flesh, and exposed bone.

He pushed up from his crouch. Eyes never leaving the covered body, he took several careful steps backwards before grabbing onto a smooth wall, turning his head and vomiting violently in the corner. The room that had been bathed in silence suddenly snapped into action; his knights rushed forward to lift Uther’s body under Leon’s direction; the friar wiped at his sweating brow and followed them; Gwen stood next to him, wrapping both arms solidly around his shoulders. He didn’t touch her, holding himself stock still.

“Sire?” Leon asked as the men hefted Uther’s body to their shoulders. Arthur nodded once curtly. “We’ll have to transport his body back to Camelot,” he said without feeling.

Most of the knights tramped out. Those who were left examined the handful of dead on the chapel floor. Merlin, who had been standing off to the side, small and quiet, took a hesitant step towards Arthur. His skin was so pale it almost looked translucent. Arthur shook off Gwen’s embrace and nodded blankly at Merlin. He interlaced his fingers with Gwen’s and moved toward the chapel doors.

Suddenly a searing cramp fisted inside Gwen, and she doubled over, digging her fingers into Arthur’s upper arm. Pain ripped through her, swift and brutal.

She groaned Arthur’s name as she felt a wrenching popping, followed by something hot and wet flowing down her legs. Instantly she knew.

“Gwen, what is it?” he asked. She whimpered and collapsed to her knees.

Arthur fell beside her and they both gaped at the rusty brown stain threading down the skirts of her white wedding dress.


End file.
